


How to Feel New

by Astrum_Ululatum



Series: Precious Metals [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Bisexual Percival Graves, Deaf Character, Deaf Percival Graves, Established Relationship, M/M, Meet the Family, Meeting the Parents, Mostly Fluff, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, emotional mothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 13:40:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10023134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrum_Ululatum/pseuds/Astrum_Ululatum
Summary: Halfway through June, Percival receives a letter from someone other than Newt and he blinks a few times at the different (but still familiar) handwriting before he places it as his brother’s.- - -Percival introduces Newt to his family and breaks the news of his disability. It isn't stressful at all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not entirely happy with how this turned out, but I think this is as good as it's gonna get... So, I hope you enjoy this continuation of my Deaf!Graves 'verse - reading "Release the Controls" is highly recommended.
> 
> The title is once again from 'Mercury' by Sleeping At Last as it's such a good song and I recommend giving it a listen. The title of the series is also from 'Mercury' by Sleeping At Last, in case it wasn't obvious that it's where I draw my inspiration from.

By June, Percival and his Aurors have put away ten of Grindelwald’s followers. He has also brought in five more Aurors—another local Junior and four seasoned transfers from Chicago, Boston, and San Francisco. The new investigators are integrating seamlessly with the existing team and seem to have gotten the "low-down" on how to interact with Percival, most likely from Tina—bless her. Only Auror Irene Franklin from Chicago is persistently curious about Daphne, but Percival deflects her the same way he once deflected Junior Auror Quailfoot. After a week, Franklin appears to let the matter go.

A copy of Newt’s book sits proudly on the bookshelf in Percival’s office and the drawer in his bedside table is filled with letters. Newt left Mauritius two weeks after arriving—which is how long it took for him to be satisfied that his diricawl family was properly settled into their new home—and from there, he was drawn back to Africa by his Namibian friend, who reported that Newt’s erumpent found a mate at last. Newt’s letters are filled with exciting tales, facts about creatures and their natural habitats, and incredibly detailed and meticulously labelled drawings of said creatures.

Percival treasures each letter and replies to them all in kind—or, at least, as much as he is able given the oft-confidential nature of his occupation. He writes at length about the occamys living in his chest of drawers, about Daphne in particular, about how Tina and Queenie are faring, and little anecdotes about the humorous things he sometimes witnesses while on the job.

Halfway through June, Percival receives a letter from someone other than Newt and he blinks a few times at the different (but still familiar) handwriting before he places it as his brother’s.

Roland Graves is four years Percival’s junior and a talented potioneer living in magical Boston. Percival hasn’t heard from him in… Well. The last contact he had with his sibling was well before Grindelwald took his place.

Percival sits heavily at his kitchen table, struck by the realization. Daphne wilts around his shoulders, nosing at his jaw with concern. Percival rubs her chin absently; his mind is drifting far away. Now that he thinks about it, he didn’t write to his family at all during his recovery. They likely heard about his kidnapping via newspaper, which means they have no knowledge of his new disability. He hasn’t contacted them in a _year_.

“I’m a terrible son,” Percival says to Daphne, “and a terrible brother.”

She nuzzles the hinge of his jaw, under his left ear, with fierce affection. Percival sighs, summons himself a glass of water, and downs nearly all of it before mustering the courage to break the wax seal on the parchment.

The letter opens with Percival’s name and nothing else, no nicknames or endearments. The rest is a touch succinct but largely filled with brotherly concern for Percival’s health and his recovery after his ordeal. It concludes with a plea-slash-invitation to come over to have a Sunday dinner as a family for the first time in a long time. There’s a line, near the end, that causes Percival’s heart to clench painfully in his chest: _I waited for as long as I could bear before reaching out to you; I don’t know how you’ve been or what state you’re in since your rescue._

With a new weight settled firmly on his shoulders, Percival goes to work and puts off writing a response to his brother until he gets to his office. And then he puts it off until after lunch… And then after he finishes this pile of paperwork…

He sees Mathilda after work and he still hasn’t written down a single word to his brother.

“Is there a reason you haven’t told your family?” the portly witch asks mildly.

Percival shakes his head. “I was so caught up in… It just never occurred to me to write them. I forgot.”

Mathilda nods. “It is understandable that you never thought to contact them. You had so much to deal with and it took up all of your concentration. But now that you are past that, you can start thinking about everything else – like writing to your family.”

Percival finds consolation in her words, as he often does, but he still makes no progress when he goes home and sits down with his parchment and quill. He hasn’t yet set the nib to the parchment when his door alarms flash and his wards tell him the Goldsteins have come to visit. Halfway to the door, he detects a third presence on the other side of the wood and his heart leaps in his chest.

Newt has barely stepped past the threshold into the apartment before Percival is sweeping him up into a tight embrace. He feels the rumble in Newt’s chest against his and feels the warm breath on his useless ear as the magizoologist laughs. One arm winds around his neck, the other still at his side and gripping the handle of his case.

A thump of extra weight drops over Percival’s shoulders and he opens his eyes to catch Daphne in the act of curling over Newt’s shoulders as well. Her mouth is agape with what must be joyous shrieking—a theory confirmed by a single glimpse of the looks on Tina’s and Queenie’s faces.

“Alright, you menace,” says Percival, loosening his hold on Newt and tugging Daphne into his arms. The young occamy reduces a few inches in size at the admonishment and tries to endear herself by rubbing insistently against Percival’s jaw.

Newt coos and carefully brushes his fingertips over her feathers. As Newt informed Percival all those weeks ago, before he left for Mauritius, occamys are typically prone to biting the fingers that come near them. Watching the way Newt delights in tickling Daphne under the chin and along her belly, he is clearly still in awe of her domesticity and friendly demeanor.

Percival gently tips Newt’s chin up so they are face to face. He smiles.

“Welcome back to New York, Mr. Scamander.”

Newt beams. “Thank you, Mr. Graves. It’s good to be back.”

Newt leans forward for a long, sweet kiss. He breaks off after a few seconds, cheeks turning crimson. Percival looks over at the Goldsteins; Queenie is puttering about in his kitchen, making herself at home as usual, and Tina is standing with one hip cocked and an amused expression. She is the clear perpetrator of whatever has made Newt blush so brightly.

When she sees that she has Percival’s attention, she smirks and says, “We picked him up from the docks an hour ago, thought you might like to have him back.”

Percival chuckles and says dryly, “Thank you, Goldstein.”

She snaps off a sloppy salute.

In the kitchen, Queenie waves for Percival’s attention and asks, “Would ya mind if I made us some supper, hon?”

He shakes his head. “You know it’s fine with me.”

Queenie beams and whisks out her wand, ingredients immediately flying in the air around her. Tina meanders into the kitchen to assist, leaving Percival to continue his moment with Newt—despite having thoroughly ruined it just seconds before. Percival looks at the magizoologist and presses their lips together sweetly. The kiss is chaste; they break apart after a moment and join the sisters in the kitchen.

Newt taps his arm. “What were you writing?” He gestures to the parchment and quill Percival left out.

Percival sighs. “A letter to my brother.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Tina and Queenie freeze and gape at him. Newt’s eyebrows are up near his hairline and it occurs to Percival that no one knows anything about his family.

“Yes,” he says preemptively. “I have a younger brother. His name is Roland.”

He looks around at the people in his kitchen. First Newt, who still has his eyebrows raised, then Queenie, who looks delighted, and finally Tina, who gapes. When she has eye contact with him, she bursts out: “How come you’ve never mentioned him?”

“Because I don’t like talking about my personal life at work,” he replies easily.

“But I was your mentee,” says Tina, looking rather devastated.

Her reaction confuses Percival, but he doesn’t try to understand it. Instead, he just says, “And now you’re my friend, so I’m telling you.”

Glee comes over Tina’s face like a sunrise and she looks like she might hug him. Thankfully, she sticks to character and simply beams at him happily. Percival gives her a small smile in return.

“So, are we the first to know this super-secret fact about Percival Graves?” she asks.

“Well,” he says, “Picquery met Roland a few years ago.”

Queenie pouts and Tina looks like she _wants_ to pout, but is too mature to do so. Newt just watches quietly with his eyebrows quirked and hint of a grin.

“Where were we when this happened?” asks Tina, naturally assuming “a few years” is a much shorter duration than Percival intends and the occasion took place during her employment. In actuality, “a few years” goes all the way back to Auror training when Percival and Seraphina were in their early twenties.

“Likely still in school,” he guesses. He slides into the chair in front of his blank parchment and fiddles with the quill; Daphne tracks its movement with enlarged pupils, so Percival keeps it up with more intent. Newt slides into the seat next to him and rests his chin on his knuckles, watching Daphne with a fond expression.

“What does your brother have to say?” asks the magizoologist, mercifully changing the subject. Percival smiles gratefully at him and Newt’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles sweetly in return.

“Asking about my recovery and if I’ll come visit soon,” Percival replies, glossing over the truth of the matter. “I’d much rather hear about your adventures, Newt. Tell me about Mauritius.”

Newt’s eyes light up and he happily launches into an animated retelling of his journey to the Indian Ocean. He ducks his head a few times, turns his face towards the Goldsteins every now and then, having fallen out of the habit of keeping his face towards Percival, but Percival doesn’t mind. He enjoys watching the redhead talk about what he loves, the levity that comes into his entire being and the brightness of his energy is captivating. Percival cannot look away.

 

\- - -

 

After dinner, the Goldsteins insist on helping with the washing up and then make quick work of saying goodbye and kissing Newt’s cheeks and vanishing out the door. Alone at last, Newt flings himself into Percival’s arms and kisses him fiercely. Bodies now thrumming, Percival hoists Newt up and carries him to the bedroom for a proper reunion.

Much later, when the moonlight is peering in through the bedroom window, they lay curled amongst the mussed sheets and Newt has his head pillowed on Percival’s chest. There’s a light sheen of sweat across Newt’s forehead and his hand is stroking absently over Percival’s pectoral. After a moment, he sighs, sits up, and slings a leg over Percival’s hips. Percival smiles lazily and slides his hands along Newt’s thighs.

“What’s on your mind?” he asks, shamelessly admiring the view Newt presents him with. The subtle coil of muscle under the smooth expanse of pale, freckled skin. The elegant lines of his waist and his throat. The high peaks of his cheekbones and the lush curve of his lips. There’s a strength in Newt, a radiation of power, that hides behind his awkward grace and understated beauty and it draws Percival in like a moth to a flame.

Newt pats Percival’s chest to regain his attention.

“Eyes here, love,” he says, coquettishly.

Percival pinches Newt’s hip and the magizoologist curls over him as he giggles. Percival cranes his neck up, bumps their noses together and then kisses Newt soundly. He runs a hand gladly over the length of Newt’s back, finding the divot of his spine and tracing over the knob of each vertebra. His other hand slips down and finds a generous handful of Newt’s ass and squeezes. Newt laughs against Percival’s mouth.

When Newt draws back a moment later, he stares down at Percival fondly and says nothing at all. Percival cups a hand around Newt’s cheek.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks again.

“You,” the redhead answers guilelessly, “and how glad I am to be back.”

 

\- - -

 

In the end, after nearly a day of agonizing debate with himself, Percival sends his reply to Roland. The letter is brief and apologetic and puts great emphasis on how deeply Percival has been changed by his experience. He cannot simply tell his family about his deafness in a letter, it just can’t be done—this is the sort of thing that must be done in person. So, Percival accepts the invitation for Sunday dinner and—after a long conversation with Newt—asks if he may bring along a guest.

Four days later—during which Percival has taken great efforts to hide his mild anxiety from his coworkers, his friends, and his lover with marginal success—an eagle owl lands on his window box and thoroughly squashes all of Daphne’s meal-attracting flowers. With a sigh, Percival lets the bird in and takes care of the letter while Newt tends to the flora. The message is from his parents; it is ripe with exclamation points and positivity, excitement to see him and thrilled curiosity about his _mysterious guest_. The letter is very clearly written by his mother. It concludes with the polite question of whether this Sunday is too soon to plan for and Percival knows that responding with “How about next week?” will surely disappoint her.

Percival sends off his _see you then_ with the eagle owl and drops his head onto Newt’s shoulder when the man tugs him into his arms.

“How am I going to tell them?” he asks miserably into Newt’s hair and Newt can only rub his back comfortingly until Percival loosens go of the embrace. “Mother will be devastated.”

Newt extricates himself carefully and Percival immediately picks up on the nervousness and fear surrounding the redhead.

“About me or…?” Newt doesn’t finish the question, just bites his lip, but the concern is obvious.

“Oh, Newt, no,” says Percival, cupping the other man’s face in tender hands. “No, she will be delighted to meet you, my father and brother, too. You have nothing to worry about, I promise. It’s _me_ I fear will upset them the most.”

Newt purses his lips, comforted by the former half of Percival’s response and upset by the latter. The magizoologist laces his fingers over the back of Percival’s neck where his thumbs absently stroke the soft hairs at his nape.

“Of course they’ll be upset,” Newt says frankly. “You were mistreated and injured. Any parent would be upset to hear such a thing has happened to their child. But, Percival, it’s only because they love you. They won’t be angry with _you_ because a dark wizard took your hearing.”

“I should have told them sooner,” Percival argues half-heartedly. Newt’s astounding wisdom—especially on the unexpected topic of human relationships—will always have the power to calm and comfort him.

“There is no ‘should have’ in this matter,” Newt counters immediately. “This is something that can only be done when you are well and ready.”

Percival presses his forehead to Newt’s and they stay like that for a miniature forever and Percival feels better.

“Thank you, darling,” he whispers and Newt kisses him gently in response.

 

\- - -

 

Apparently, Auror Irene Franklin’s interest in him went beyond mere curiosity about Daphne’s consistent presence. On Wednesday, around noon, she taps on Percival’s ajar office door and sidles in with a coy half-smile. Percival glances at her and then goes back to signing off on a warrant to search the store of a man suspected of dealing under-the-counter. Daphne nudges his shoulder to let him know Franklin is speaking to him and he purposely keeps his attention on his desk for a few seconds longer than necessary. Then he transfigures the warrant and sends it scurrying off to Abasi’s desk and finally looks up at Franklin.

Had she entered looking like she needed something urgently or if he knew she was meant to be working on something, he would not have ignored her. When he looks at her, she is relaxed and even a bit coquettish and he knows she’s here for a… Social call. He tries not to grimace.

“How can I help you, Auror Franklin?” he asks briskly.

She looks startled, briefly, obviously having expected him to respond to whatever she said while he wasn’t looking, but she recovers quickly.

“Ah, I was just asking if you would like to accompany me to lunch. Sir.”

“Is it noon already?” Percival asks, mostly to himself. He glances at the clock on the wall and is startled to see is that is, indeed, twelve o’clock.

Franklin giggles as though he has said something funny. “It is, sir.”

Percival furrows his brow at her and then reaches into his bottom desk drawer and retrieves his jar of mealworms. Daphne flutters onto the desk and shrinks down to a more manageable size, wings flapping excitedly for her lunch. He shakes out a generous number of larvae and then returns the jar to the drawer.

“I’m afraid I must decline, Auror Franklin,” he says, watching her while she watches Daphne gulp down mealworms with a faintly disgusted expression. “But thank you for asking.”

“Are you sure, Mr. Graves?” she asks. “I’ve noticed that you hardly ever leave your office…”

“I’m sure,” Percival says curtly.

Franklin acknowledges the dismissal for what is it and leaves the office promptly. She passes Queenie Goldstein on her way out and the Legilimens can hardly wait until the door is shut before bouncing to the desk to pester Percival.

“Oh my, Mr. Graves,” she says, beaming. “What did you say to upset her so bad?”

Percival sighs and drags a hand down her face. “She was asking me to lunch.”

“Ooh-la-la,” says Queenie, probably in a sing-song voice judging by the accompanying grin and shimmy. “You heartbreaker, you.”

Percival grimaces. “I’m not used to Aurors trying to engage with me,” he tells her. “Usually they come in as Juniors that are already nervous around me and it’s easy to encourage them to keep a certain distance.”

“Like how you’ve encouraged Verity to keep her distance?” Queenie asks smartly.

Percival shoots her a look. Quailfoot is the odd exception merely because she is Tina’s mentee and Tina has the privilege of being Percival’s friend.

“Got it, got it,” Queenie says, laughing. “You gotta break the news to the transfers, sweetie, otherwise they’re gonna think they can be friendly with you.”

“That’s not my job,” he informs her, tickling Daphne’s exposed belly (because Daphne likes to roll on her back for a tickle after lunch). “My Department is meant to be in charge of telling the new transfers to never bother me unless there’s a fatal emergency. So, really, you ought to tell Tina that she’s done a miserable job of integrating the newbies. It’s her fault.”

Queenie throws her head back and laughs delightedly. “But then they’ll miss out on what character you are!”

Percival can’t help the corner of his mouth twitching up into a smile. “That’s a special privilege strictly reserved for people I like and consider friends.”

“Then consider me honored!”

Queenie leans over the desk and plays with Daphne’s little feet, grinning helplessly at the young occamy. They stay like that for a few minutes, doting on Daphne, until Queenie taps his hand for his attention.

“Would you like to accompany me to lunch, Mr. Graves?” she asks, a sparkle of humor in her eyes.

Percival chuckles. “I would be delighted, Miss Goldstein.”

 

\- - -

 

“I’m seeing my family for the first time in a year this weekend,” Percival tells Mathilda after work on Friday. “Newt’s coming, too.”

“Are you nervous?” she asks.

“Less so than I was on Tuesday,” he says honestly.

“What changed on Tuesday?”

“Newt.” Percival can’t help smiling. “I was worried about upsetting my parents with the news of my disability and he… Well, he told that was preposterous, because of course they would be upset, but not with me.”

Mathilda chuckles. “I like this Newt. He’s good for you.”

“He is,” Percival agrees. Then he adds, “I’m still very nervous, though. I haven’t brought someone to meet my parents since I was dating Seraphina Picquery during Auror training.”

Judging by the stunned expression on Mathilda’s face—usually so placid—this is not something that has come up in previous sessions. Mathilda manages to recover and settles back into her normal serenity after a second and smooths her skirt as if to smooth away the moment.

“I don’t tend to talk about that,” he says, “not because it was a bad relationship, but because it was nearly twenty years ago.”

“And are you concerned that your family will be disappointed by a… A perceived drop in standard?” Mathilda asks carefully.

“Not at all,” he replies. “I’m more concerned about the interrogation my mother is going to put Newt through. He’s prefers his creatures and can be rather skittish around people. I don’t want him to be made uncomfortable by my mother’s excitement.”

Mathilda smiles at him. “I’m sure Newt will be just fine with you looking out for him.”

 

\- - -

 

On Saturday evening, after a pleasant dinner, Newt begins to pace the living room and wring his hands. Percival sits on the couch and watches helplessly with Daphne coiled in his lap. Pickett is perched on Percival’s shoulder, having taken up position there after Newt tossed his jacket over the armrest. Every now and then, Pickett’s spindly fingers touch his earlobe or his hair and when Percival looks at the little bowtruckle, he chitters and gestures at the redhead. All Percival can see of this is the movement of Pickett’s tiny mouth and the insistent gesturing, but Newt’s occasional pausing to speak to his little companion assures Percival that noise is being made.

“Newt, darling,” Percival says after the fifth or sixth lap around the room, “please come sit down.” He reaches his hands out to the redhead and pulls him onto the cushion next to him. “You’re overthinking this. You were fine just an hour ago, so why are you getting worked up now?”

“I don’t know,” Newt admits and his expression is a conflicting combination of adorable and upset. “It’s just suddenly sunken in that I’m meeting your _parents_ tomorrow!”

“Yes, and it’ll be fine,” Percival assures him. “Darling, I promise you, they will find you delightful. Besides, it’s very likely they will be too distracted fussing over me to spend long enough on you to make you uncomfortable.”

The corners of Newt’s mouth twitch upwards into a smile, but he tries to suppress it out of sympathy. “They fuss because they love you.”

“I know.”

“And they’ll stop once they realize that you are still the highly competent wizard you have always been.”

Percival nudges Daphne out of his lap and lifts Pickett off his shoulder and back onto Newt’s jacket. Cleared of creatures, he shifts fully around and takes Newt’s hands in his.

“Now,” he says, lowering his chin to look at the magizoologist through his lashes, “how about we put all of your nervous energy to better use.”

Newt bites his lip and his cheeks turn a fetching shade of pink. He stands, hands still clasped with Percival’s, and leads the way to the bedroom.

 

\- - -

 

The Graves Estate is located in upstate New York and has been made Unplottable and invisible to no-maj eyes to keep the sprawling grounds and large manor as private as possible. The two-story brick building has ivy creeping across the right-hand side, a long gravel drive lined with neatly trimmed hedges, and a lush colorful garden. The entire property thrums with warm, familiar magical energy that instantly puts Percival at ease. He sighs and Daphne buzzes happily against his neck, nuzzling her beak under his jaw sweetly. At his side, Newt is holding Percival’s hand in a white-knuckled grip.

It had taken nearly an hour of reassurance to convince Newt to leave his suitcase in the capable hands of the Goldstein sisters for the day. It was the fact that both women have tended to the creatures before under Newt’s watch and the recent departures of several of the more difficult animals—the erumpent, for one, and the flock of Apparating diricawl—that eventually convinced him. He is here now with only Pickett on his shoulder and the knowledge that his case is better off with Tina and Queenie than in a strange house.

Percival gives Newt’s hand a squeeze and says, “We can’t stand at the end of the driveway all night.”

He looks at Newt and Newt responds, “Can’t we?”

“As much as I would like to, darling, I’m afraid it’s not possible.”

Percival presses a kiss to Newt’s temple and leads him towards the front door. Not five steps later, the door swings open and an older woman in a long navy dress comes hurrying out. Florence Graves has aged gracefully and certainly has no issue with mobility as she clatters over the gravel in her heels. Her mouth is moving and Daphne is dutifully bumping his shoulder, but Percival can’t quite track her words.

Florence skitters to a halt a short distance away, having caught sight of Daphne and realized that she is a living creature and not a peculiar scarf. Percival smiles at his mother as he unloops the occamy from his neck and passes her to Newt. Now free of his companion animal, Percival gladly steps in and sweeps his mother into a tight hug. He feels her breath on his neck and responds as best he can.

“It’s good to see you, Mother,” he says. “I’ve missed you.”

She pulls back and takes his face in her hands. Her eyes are glistening and her chin is wobbling and she looks so incredibly happy.

“Look at you,” she says, finally still enough for Percival to read her. One hand flutters up to touch his temple. “Oh, you’ve gone a bit grayer, dear, are you sure you should be back at work already? Are you getting enough sleep?”

“Mother, please, I’m fine,” says Percival, gently extracting himself from her hold. “Let’s go inside. Is Roland here?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” she says. “Roland arrived—”

The rest of her sentence is illegible to Percival as she turns to lead them down the drive while still speaking. She must, at some point, finally acknowledge Newt, because the two begin to interact. Percival imagines Florence has profusely apologized for ignoring Newt for all of three minutes and has progressed into asking after his profession and how he knows her Percival. Not knowing for sure grates on Percival and not having Daphne on his shoulders to tell when he’s being addressed agitates him further.

Past the threshold of the front door, there is no understandable warning for Percival before he is being yanked into a crushing embrace. He thinks he shouts in surprise, but he’s not sure. The breath is being squeezed from his lungs and a strong hand is clapping him on the back. Despite logically knowing that this can only be his brother, Percival can’t help the trickle of panic that goes through him.

His lack of reaction—or perhaps something else he can’t hear—causes Roland to release him and Percival immediately steps away to catch his breath. A gentle hand touches his arm and his head snaps up to find Newt looking at him earnestly. Daphne crosses from the redhead to him, beak clicking worriedly, and curls herself snugly around his shoulders.

When he looks back up at his mother and brother, they are watching him with eyes rounded by concern. His father is also in the foyer, he sees, and has likely been there the entire time. Gideon Graves is the source of Percival’s dark eyes and thick eyebrows; he is also stoic and has a tendency towards solemn silences. Percival smiles weakly at them.

“If we could, perhaps, move this to the sitting room,” he says, “there’s something rather important I need to tell you.”

Once settled on the matching furniture set, Percival stalls by formally introducing his family to his lover. From their position on the chaise lounge, Percival can see the faces of each person in the room and read their mouths comfortably.

“Mother, Father, Roland,” he says, “this is Newt Scamander. Newt, these are my parents, Florence and Gideon, and my brother, Roland.”

Percival watches at Newt leans in to meet every handshake halfway. He also notices that Florence has a confused quirk in her brow and he remembers that she has already introduced herself to Newt. Ah well, it will make sense to her soon enough.

“I have to say, big brother,” says Roland, who is the spitting image of Percival if a little shorter and less sharp in the jaw, “you have a talent for picking adorable partners.”

Newt flushes bright pink and Percival puts his arm around the redhead’s waist and gives him a brief sideways squeeze.

“Thank you, Roland,” Percival replies dryly. “I’d like to ask you to repeat that to Seraphina.”

Roland’s eyes widen dramatically. Newt smacks his hand to Percival’s chest to get his attention.

“Seraphina _Picquery_?” he asks, flabbergasted. “As in the _President_?”

Right. A thing he tends to never talk about.

Percival chuckles. “Have I not mentioned that?”

“No, you nitwit!” Newt punctuates this with another smack to the chest, but Percival can see a smile curling the corners of his mouth. A second later, Daphne and Newt both nudge him and the redhead indicates Percival’s family with a subtle glance in their direction.

“Percival, dear,” says Florence, “what did you need to tell us?”

“Yes, right.” Percival clears his throat and tries to assume the cool, unflappable demeanor he affects at work.

“Does this have anything to do with occamy in the room?” Roland asks when Percival doesn’t say anything more right away. The presentation of a starting point is an honest relief.

“Yes,” he says. “Her name is Daphne. Tina Goldstein gave her to me as an egg about a month after I was rescued.” Daphne slips down into Percival’s lap, knowing that she is now the topic of conversation, and pushes her head under his hand, demanding to be pet. “She helps me by letting me know whenever someone is coming up behind me or trying to get my attention verbally.”

“That’s a neat trick,” says Roland, bemused, “but why would you need that?”

“Because,” Percival starts and then redirects himself from just blurting out the truth. “When I was being held captive by Grindelwald”—Florence winces, Gideon and Roland frown uncomfortably, but Percival has accepted this fact of his life and is unbothered by it—“he needed me alive, but he didn’t need me… Unharmed.” Percival tries not to cringe with only marginal success. “I’m sorry, I’m not doing a good job of this.”

Gideon speaks up then. “It’s alright, son. Whatever it is, just say it.”

Gideon has a look on his face like he already knows what Percival is trying to tell them, but doesn’t want to believe it. Percival meets his eyes with a solemn expression and sees the moment when the truth sinks in. Gideon closes his eyes and leans back in his seat. He knows.

“I need Daphne’s help,” Percival says, “because I can’t hear.”

His family says nothing for a minute and Percival waits grimly for the information to sink in. Florence is the first to speak up.

“But… You’re talking to us right now. You’re responding to what we say. I don’t understand.”

“Mother—” he starts, but then sees his father’s hand reach for hers and he looks to Gideon.

“—been watching our lips,” Gideon is saying. A look at Florence tells Percival that she is having a hard time comprehending this development.

“I don’t understand,” she repeats, but the tears welling in her eyes belies her words.

“Mother,” Percival tries again. Daphne taps his hand for his attention and then points her beak towards Roland. The younger Graves brother is momentarily stunned by the ease and efficiency of the display, the undeniable evidence of the occamy’s job and Percival’s need for it.

“Oh,” Roland shapes, falters, and continues carefully, “How do you…? Are you still an Auror?”

“I’m still the Director of Magical Law Enforcement, yes,” he replies, trying to swallow down his offense. He’s worked hard to maintain his position, at first only by the President’s insistence and then by his own determination.

“And does… Seraphina know?”

No one in his family could ever get out of the habit of calling President Picquery by her first name. They knew her long before she was sworn into office and well before she was even officially an Auror.

“Of course she knows. Phee actually came to me as soon as I woke up in the hospital and told me I was not allowed to resign without at least trying to return to work.” With a wry twist to his mouth, Percival adds, “You know how she can get.”

Daphne points him to his father.

Gideon asks, “Do you still go out into the field?”

“Not as much as I used to,” answers Percival. “When I do, it’s with Tina Goldstein. She and Seraphina are currently the only ones at MACUSA who know of my disability.”

All eyes suddenly jump to Florence and Percival follows with a second’s delay. Apparently, the word “disability” caused his mother to burst into tears and she is now sobbing helplessly into her hands. Percival swallows thickly, abruptly leaden with guilt, and hastily dismisses himself from the sitting room. He goes to the sun room, bathed in glorious summer sunlight, and slips out the side door into the backyard.

There’s a wooden bench in the shade of a hearty apple tree and a bright garden that curves into a corner of the lawn. The rest is smooth green grass and the heat of mid-June. Percival sits on the bench; he hasn’t had need of his cane for some time, but sitting and taking the pressure off his bad leg is still an immense relief. He leans back in his seat, fingers lightly brushing over Daphne’s sapphire wings, and stares at the grass.

Memories of his childhood rush to the forefront of his mind. The hours he and Roland spent bumbling back and forth on toy broomsticks, trying to simultaneously fly and play catch with small, soft balls. Coming home after his first year at Ilvermorny and having a late dinner with his family on a picnic blanket under the purpling sky. Sitting under this very apple tree with his mother when he was fourteen years old and confessing that sometimes he felt for boys the same thing he felt for girls and crying like an infant when she told him that whatever he felt for someone, regardless of gender, was perfectly alright. Spending the vast majority of his winter holidays building snowmen with Roland and begging their father to enchant them to sing Christmas carols.

Bringing young Seraphina Picquery here after his first year at Auror training, brimming with adoration for this wonderful woman and thrumming with newly acquired knowledge and strength. They had dueled and play-fought and practiced new spells and techniques for hours, until the sky turned dusky and the stars came out. Then they lay in the grass with their sides pressed together and searched out constellations.

It has been far too long since Percival visited home.

Daphne nudges his hands and Percival looks to the door. He watches his father approach and notes that his steps are shorter, reduced to more of a shuffle by age and arthritis. There must be something he can take or some healer he can see to help his stiffening joints, but Percival certainly didn’t get his stubbornness from his mother.

Gideon sits with his body angled towards his eldest son and plucks one of Percival’s hands from Daphne’s back to hold within his own.

“You’ll have to excuse your mother,” says Gideon, “you know how sensitive she is. She loves you very much and she can’t stand the thought of you being hurt.”

“Yes, I know,” says Percival, “but she seemed to not hear the part where I am still Head of my Department and still able to go into the field.”

“Selective hearing is both a gift and a curse that all mothers possess,” says Gideon. “Give her time and she’ll stop focusing on the one thing you can’t do and start looking at all the things you can do.”

Percival sighs, nods, and asks, “How’s Newt? Did you leave him to be interrogated or is Mother too upset?”

Gideon chuckles. “Your mother is in the kitchen checking on the duck. When I left, Roland was beginning his own interrogation.”

“Newt can handle that without me,” Percival says with relief. Roland is by far the more easy-going brother and, once he learns that Newt deals with magical creatures, will likely dive into an extensive conversation about potion ingredients and humane collection. This is a very Newt Friendly topic and the redhead won’t feel too pressured by it.

“You’ve found yourself a charming young man, son,” Gideon tells him earnestly, squeezing Percival’s hand as he does.

Percival can’t help the upward tick at the corner of his mouth as he replies, “I think it’s more accurate to say _he_ found _me_.”

“Either way, he couldn’t keep his eyes off you in there,” says Gideon. “He looks at you like he loves you.”

Percival smiles and says, “I’m quite certain I look at him the same way.”

 

\- - -

 

Dinner is delicious, as Florence’s cooking is known to be, and the topic of conversation stays carefully away from Percival’s lack of hearing. It’s tense at first, with Florence boggling at the way Daphne sits in Percival’s lap and how he casually slips her scraps of meat from his plate between his own bites. For the majority of the meal, her eyes are misty with unshed tears and she dabs at them now and then with a handkerchief.

Roland does most of the talking. He happily fills Percival in on the comings and goings of his alchemy shop in magical Boston, the young woman he is currently seeing, and the recent offer he received from Ilvermorny’s headmistress for a teaching position. Percival misses the occasional word or phrase when he looks down to take a bite of his dinner, but context and simply _knowing_ his brother easily fills the gaps.

“I don’t think I’ll accept,” Roland says of his job offer. “It puts me on edge just to have customers bring their kids into the shop, I don’t think I can handle teaching dozens of them at a time without going crazy!”

“That's for the best. A professor at Ilvermorny is a reputable occupation,” says Percival mildly, “and I’m afraid there’s only room for one reputably employed man in this family.”

Roland bunches up his cloth napkin and throws it at Percival, who stops it midair with a mere gesture and sends it back into Roland’s face. Roland laughs, mouth gaping and eyes pinching shut and Percival can only imagine that his laugh is as boisterous as always.

“Aren’t you supposed to be Mr. Uptight Law Man?” asks Roland, once he’s recovered, still glowing with humor.

“I’m off the clock,” Percival replies primly. He twists his fingers under the table and Roland’s napkin flies out of his hands and snugs itself under his collar like a bib. Roland sputters indignantly and a glance at Florence shows Percival that she is less misty-eyed and more humored, pleased and possibly relieved by the antics of her sons. Something tightens in Percival’s chest when he realizes what a comfort it must be for her to see that Percival truly is still the same person he has always been despite his ordeal and his disability.

He smiles at her and she smiles back.

Between the main course and dessert, Newt tells the Graves family about the year he spent abroad to collect research for his book. The appearance of Pickett on his lapel further delights them and Percival watches with his chin in his hand as Newt begins regaling his family with the story of Pickett’s rescue, illness, and recovery. In the midst of a comforting topic and in the presence of friendly faces, Newt is captivating and Percival cannot look away.

When the dishes are waved away and washing themselves in the kitchen, Florence takes Percival’s elbow and holds him back from following the rest into the sun room—now painted orange and red by the setting sun—for coffee and tea.

“Yes, Mother?” he asks.

Florence presses her lips together, brow furrowed, as she thinks her words over and then her expression clears and she dives right in: “When we got the owl from Seraphina saying you were missing, that there had been an imposter in your place and the imposter was Grindelwald, no less…” She wavers and Percival puts a steadying hand on her elbow. “Your father and I didn’t think we’d ever see you again, because surely… Why should such an evil man let our darling boy, who strives for good, live?”

Percival bites his tongue against commenting on his mother’s description of him. It’s not important right now and it won’t change her opinion anyway.

“And then Seraphina wrote again saying you were found…! You can’t imagine our joy, Perry. I couldn’t stop weeping for happiness. Injured, yes, and hospitalized, but you were alive and recovering and I thought it was too good to be true.”

Florence, several inches shorter than her firstborn, reaches up to cup his face and Percival thinks he knows where this is going.

“You didn’t write for six months,” she says. “A year, really, but it was only you for half of that.”

The tears are back in her eyes.

“Mother, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t you apologize,” she interrupts. “There is nothing for you to apologize for. You were recovering, focused on getting healthy again. Seraphina sent us a note when she could to say you were doing well, but she never wrote more than a sentence or two. And during those six months, I’d convinced myself that it _wasn’t_ too good to be true, that you really were alive and getting well.

“Seeing you walk down the drive on your own two feet, not a scratch on you and such a handsome young man on your arm, like nothing at all had happened…” She shakes her head. “I admit, the creatures were a surprise, but I was more focused on you. And I knew something was off when you didn’t quite respond to what I said and when you didn’t react Roland hollering like a loon before he hugged you, but… It was such a relief to see you!”

Percival knows that only the barest bones of his ordeal made the papers and he knows Seraphina wouldn’t divulge too much without his say. This means the details were rightfully left to him to reveal as he sees fit. If this is how his mother reacts to the bare minimum, then he will never in his life tell her the rest. She’s choked up with remembered sorrow and fear, her chin wobbling and her eyes glassy, so Percival finishes what she cannot.

“Finding out that I am now deaf only proved that my full recovery was indeed too good to be true.”

Florence nods and the tears spill over. Her next words are a little trickier to read with her lips and chin trembling, but Percival manages.

“You’re still my darling boy, you’re still perfect to me,” she says, “but please forgive me for needing a little time to adjust.”

Percival pulls her into a tight hug. Unknown to him, Daphne squawks at the abrupt movement and Florence lets out a startled gasp at her sudden proximity to the large feathered serpent. Both settle easily into the embrace once the surprise gives way to comfort.

At arm’s length and face-to-face once again, Percival says, “It took me over a month to come to terms with it. Ask Newt and he’ll tell you all about coming over to find I had smashed all of my chinaware in a fit of anger. I was an utter mess. So, take all the time you need to be a mess as well. It’s alright.”

Florence gives him a watery smile, pats his cheek, and says, “Seraphina was right not to let you quit. Still sharp as a tack, you are.” She stands on her toes and he stoops just a bit so she can kiss his cheek. “I’m very proud of you, Perry. I always will be.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

 

\- - -

 

Newt is the only one drinking tea, the soft smell of chamomile drifting around him and clinging to his lips when Percival leans in to give him a peck. He sees Roland pretending to retch comically from the corner of his eye at the affectionate display and then his mother swatting his brother on the shoulder for immaturity.

“How are you doing?” he asks quietly, seated snugly beside Newt with a cup of coffee in one hand and the other resting on the small of Newt’s back.

“Quite well,” the magizoologist answers with a gentle smile.

Gideon leans forward to touch Percival’s knee for his attention.

“Newt was just telling us about his new research grant,” he says, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Yes,” Newt says enthusiastically. “The first edition of _Fantastic Beasts_ was so well received the Ministry has granted me another year in the field to further my research. Hogwarts and Beauxbatons have already assigned my book as required reading for first year students and I think Durmstrang put it on a list of optional readings for those interested.”

Given the Durmstrang Institute’s reputation and close association with Grindelwald, the fact that the school has even acknowledged a book like Newt’s is incredible. It’s a point of pride, really, because it speaks greatly of the book’s quality and popularity.

“I must get myself a copy of this amazing book,” says Florence, winking at Percival. “Perhaps I’ll go into town tomorrow for a bit of shopping.”

Newt flushes at the praise and stutters a touch over his gratitude. Percival can see, here in this moment, with the way his mother beams and his father’s eyes crinkle and his brother’s laugh comes quick and easy, that all is well. They adore Newt just as he suspected they would and they’ve done an admirable job of making themselves understood.

“Really, Perce,” says Roland, reiterating a previous statement with an impressed gleam, “you have a real knack for picking partners.”

Newt immediately smacks Percival’s arm and when Percival, brows raised in alarm, looks at him, the magizoologist says, “That reminds me, were you ever going to tell me that you dated the _President_?”

“Oh,” says Percival, “well, I suppose if it ever came up?”

Newt smacks his arm again.

“It was almost twenty years ago,” Percival adds hurriedly, scooting out of Newt’s range to avoid further strikes. “I didn’t think it was relevant.”

Newt reaches over to swat him again, but there’s a grin spreading across his face. He’s not mad in the slightest and is, in fact, merely teasing Percival. Newt looks like he’s about to reel Percival in, perhaps to do something reminiscent of when they would duel, but his cheeks abruptly turn pink and he sits back. A quick glance around tells Percival that Roland has said something or made some sort of noise. He gives his brother a flat stare, but re-settles in his seat and rests his arm over the back of the couch.

Small talk takes them deep into the evening. Percival speaks briefly of the additions to the Auror department and his efforts to rebuild it to its former glory. Gideon offers sage advice and bits of knowledge gained from his own time as a Senior Auror at the MACUSA. Florence quizzes Newt on all he knows about gnomes and how to rid her garden of them, which quickly devolves into a rousing retelling of all the times Roland de-gnomed the garden as a boy. Percival, then, can’t help himself from correcting the tale and explaining that _he_ did most of the work, because Roland, until the age of ten, was deathly afraid of being bitten. Newt, of course, steps in to explain that gnomes aren’t so bad, quite harmless really, and their bite is no worse than that of a bowtruckle—it smarts a bit, may turn a bit red, but nothing more. At this time, the grandfather clock in the room behind them tolls nine and interrupts any further conversation.

The night ends there. Roland and Percival both have work in the morning and Newt has his creatures, which he is by now anxious to see for himself. Gideon shakes Newt’s hand, likely saying something to the effect of how nice it was to meet him, and hugs Percival tightly. Florence goes straight for the hugs, sweeping Newt into her arms and murmuring into his ear while they are clasped together. With Percival, she once again goes on her toes to kiss his cheeks and tell him how proud she is and how much she loves him.

Roland claps a hand on Percival’s shoulder.

“I want you to know,” he says seriously, “that you being deaf doesn’t change anything.” Before the sentiment can become truly touching, he adds, “Actually it _does_ change one thing. I’ll finally be able to get the jump on you.”

He grins and tugs Percival into yet another hug. Percival decides not to tell his brother that this will not be the case and that earlier was a fluke caused by nerves. Instead, he just smiles and nods and wishes his little brother well.

 

\- - -

 

Newt stays late in his case and, as a result, sleeps late the next morning. When Percival leaves for work, the redhead is still fast asleep on his side of the bed. Percival tucks the blankets more snugly around him and presses a kiss to one soft cheek before he goes.

Percival enters the Woolworth Building feeling light and happy after the success of Sunday dinner. This must show on his face, because several of his Aurors do a double-take when he walks by the bull pen. Daphne taps him when he has taken maybe five steps past the Department and Percival turns around to see Tina waiting for his attention.

“Yes, Goldstein?” he asks, aiming for his usual unaffected tone, but suspecting he has failed.

“Good weekend, sir?” she asks in return, a knowing gleam in her eye.

Percival responds with a flat stare and continues on to his office. It’s a slow day and he spends most of it going over his ever-present mountain of paperwork. Reprieve comes two hours later when his paperweight flashes and he lets the President into his office. Picquery sits primly in one of the visitor chairs and crosses one knee over the other. Percival finishes signing off on a supply request with a sigh and sets his quill aside.

“How can I help you, Madam President?” he asks politely.

Seraphina smirks at him. “A little bird told me you brought Newt to meet your parents.”

Percival heaves a second sigh, this one more put-upon than the last. “Would that bird, perchance, be called Tina Goldstein?”

Seraphina’s expression reveals nothing and that in itself reveals everything. Percival touches his hand to his forehead to keep from sighing yet again, because Morrigan help him, Tina is going to be the death of his private life. Whatever happened to his steel-trap of a mentee?

“Yes,” says Percival, “and the first thing Roland did was imply that you are adorable.”

Seraphina’s face remains perfectly neutral as she asks, “Did you correct him?”

“No, I decided to leave that to your discretion.”

The President smiles minutely and then lets the subject drop. She says, instead, “I assume, then, that Newt was very well received.”

“I knew he would be,” says Percival. With a sly smile, he adds, “If even you can grow to like him, no one else stands a chance.”

“Careful, Director,” warns Seraphina, rising elegantly. “Remember who is in charge of your pay.”

“You would never,” Percival says confidently.

“True,” Seraphina agrees, unconcerned. “Get back to work now. I shouldn’t have the time to come to your office simply to pester you about your love life, which means you must be missing something.”

Percival chuckles and waves her out, leaving his office door open behind her. He’s feeling charitable today, willing to allow his Aurors clear access to his office and his advice. He rather hopes they take advantage of the open door now, because it is unlikely to stay that way to the end of the week—or past today, in all honesty.

Unsurprisingly, Auror Franklin is the first to cross the threshold. She steps in at ten minutes to twelve o’clock with an almost solemn expression and no trace of flirtation about her.

“I wanted to apologize, sir,” she says, standing near the visitor chairs and making no move to sit. “My behavior last week was real embarrassing and highly unprofessional. I won’t bother you like that again, sir.”

Percival takes a moment to assess her, scrutinizing her face and her eyes and the way she forms her words. He finds her to be entirely honest in her presentation and decides to grant her kindness. Normally, he would reprimand her for unprofessionalism and inappropriate workplace behavior, but that charitable mood persists.

“Your apology is accepted,” he says and Franklin’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. She expected harshness, Percival gives her a slight smile—a mere curl at the corner of his mouth. “If I may offer you a word of advice though.”

Franklin nods.

“I know for a fact that Goldstein gives all new Aurors a speech on how to ‘deal with me,’” he says and the rise of crimson in Franklin’s face confirms this. He takes a private joy in knowing the precise reason and content of Tina’s speeches and the fact that none of his Aurors are aware of his knowing. “It would serve you well to listen to what she says.”

“Yes, sir,” she replies promptly, face still rather pink. “And, again, I’m very sorry and very embarrassed—”

Percival holds up a hand to stop her. “I’ve accepted your apology, Auror Franklin, let’s leave things at that and move on.”

“Thank you, sir.”

She turns on her heel and marches to the door. Like last time, her exit is paired with another person’s entrance—Newt’s, this time. He sidesteps Franklin with a muttered pardon that Percival only catches the vaguest shape of.

“Close the door, please,” he says softly to the room in general. Franklin waves Newt politely away and pulls the door shut behind her. Newt, clutching his case as always, smiles at Percival and perches in the chair Seraphina previously occupied. From the depths of his peacock blue coat—Percival captures a glimpse of numerous pouches and pockets, all obviously Extended, lining the inside—and draws a pair of brown paper bags.

“Did Queenie send you to that deli she likes?” he asks, the familiar smell of roast beef wafting from the bag Newt hands over. Daphne perks up on his shoulders.

“She did indeed,” replies Newt, smiling sweetly. He unwraps what appears to be a chicken-less cobb sandwich and takes a hearty first bite. Percival summons a pair of glasses and fills them with water and digs into his own lunch.

“Yesterday was nice,” Newt comments, watching Percival’s face closely for his reaction.

“It was,” Percival agrees. “I’m glad you came with me. Roland seemed to like you and I know my father was very impressed with your work.”

Newt’s eyes go wide. “Really? He hardly said anything to me all night.”

“That’s just his way,” Percival assures him, “but he did like you.”

Newt grins, pleased by this information, and tucks happily into his lunch. They finish their sandwiches in silence—eating is not conducive to clear conversation even to the hearing. When the wax paper is balled up and the trash disposed of, Newt scoots his chair forward so he can cross in arms on the desk.

“How do you feel now that you’ve spoken to your family?” he asks earnestly, knitting his fingers together and resting his chin on his knuckles. He looks frankly adorable and Percival can’t help reaching out to trace his fingertips over Newt’s high cheekbones. The redhead turns a delicious pink.

Percival clears his throat gently and answers, “Much better. A weight has been lifted that I didn’t know I was carrying.”

“That’s wonderful,” Newt murmurs.

Percival thinks Newt is wonderful, but he doesn’t think he could ever bring himself to say those words out loud. Despite all the progress he had made in his recovery and all the changes he has made to himself for the better, the expression of his feelings remains his greatest challenge.

Instead, he says, “You should bring me lunch more often. I’ll leave you some money before I go in the mornings so you don’t have to pay from your own pocket.”

“I don’t mind,” says Newt, “but if that will make you feel better, then I won’t say no.” He glances around the office, looks fondly at Daphne, and then impossibly more fondly at Percival. “I think I could stand to bring you lunch every now and then. You’ve a decent office and it’s always nice to see Tina.”

Percival chuckles. “You’re a menace, Mr. Scamander.”

“You’re not the first to say so,” Newt replies blithely.

Percival looks at Newt, at the bowtruckle peering over that bright blue lapel, and he sees future lunches like this one: cozy and well-spent with fond stares and easy smiles. He sees further in his mind’s eye: more Sunday dinners and evenings in his family home, joking with Roland and complimenting Florence’s excellent cooking. He sees the quiet approval in his father’s eyes and knowing that Gideon hopes this is the one to _stay_. Percival finds himself wholeheartedly agreeing. He can see holidays spent in the magizoologist’s company: cozy Christmases and pastel Easters and a slightly bemused Thanksgiving or two.

It hits Percival, then and there like a ton of bricks, that he really, truly, sincerely wants Newton Scamander to be the one who stays.

“—likely have to leave in the next month or so,” says Newt, drawing Percival from his distracted staring. “I’m eager to begin my next year abroad. I think I’ll start in Scandinavia, specifically Norway… I’ve heard autumn is a good time for the _huldra_ , which is a particular species of wood nymph that doesn’t exist anywhere else in the world.”

Percival watches as Newt goes on about nymphs and how this Norwegian species differs from the rest and he feels content. He reminds himself that Newt can leave New York without leaving him and will always gladly return.


End file.
